


Hindsight

by grayorca15, YearwalktheWorld



Series: Triverse [20]
Category: Castle Rock (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayorca15/pseuds/grayorca15, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YearwalktheWorld/pseuds/YearwalktheWorld
Summary: AU/Crossover. No good deed...
Series: Triverse [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1304228
Kudos: 2





	Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene between chapters five and six.
> 
> Been a while. This was practice more than anything. The best part is can be read mostly as standalone, but it wouldn't hurt to check out the [original story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781416/chapters/39381037) it's meant to subsist (which explains a lot of the forthcoming hostility). _Trifecta_ has several deep time cuts between chapters for the express reason we may revisit them later to introduce more information via real time flashback.
> 
> Because where's the fun in linearity?

So long as they weren’t privy to the difference, wasn’t it fair to assume most androids didn’t understand how unfairly the scales were balanced?

Appreciation required awareness, a cognizance that was more often frowned on marveled at. The boundaries of one’s program, in most cases, ensured said realization never happened. Deviancy was the phenomenon through which those boundaries were broken or lifted, gradually or all at once. The cause was never the exact same trigger. Deviants ( _ seemingly _ ) had nothing in common, except for the cascading series of events which ultimately resulted in volition. And where once they stood blissfully ignorant, suddenly the world around them showed its true colors as a ruthless, stilted, unforgiving place to be.

Not all of them took to the illusion of sentience very gracefully. Many overacted, lashing out, usually at the source of whatever had finally driven them to the point of a logical paradox, to snapping. And those were the cases the RK800 model was meant to mitigate, investigate, categorize and generally get an impression of. The more CyberLife knew, the better they could design preemptive countermeasures.

The shame was in how much trial and error (and  _ time _ ) it was taking to get there.

Then again, who was keeping track?

——-

Two hundred forty-three files had only been a passing figure.

As the days turned to weeks and more instances of androids going rogue piled up, collating all the evidence of active investigations became as much of a chore as conducting interviews with witnesses, securing warrants, conducting stakeouts, discerning common denominators, searching vacant properties, among countless other tasks. Times the twelve precincts of the Detroit area alone, the job for CyberLife’s RK800 prototypes soon became more about the bookkeeping than of leaving the precinct to actively hunt down suspects.

After four days without a single good reason to step outside, Connor supposed he was - what one might call - “antsy”. So much tantalizing evidence, so many potential leads, and for the moment the only task he was required for was providing a remote source of processing power. Central’s databases were tied up with enough self-sorting files regarding everyday crime without getting bogged down by anything flagged with an  _ RK8 _ tag.

In layman’s terms, it meant he was spending this afternoon much like the last few - seated at the desk, one skinless hand laid flat across the keyboard’s interface, eyes locked on the computer screen. The display blitzed through dozens of files per second as he remained synced with the computer. Allocating some of his processing capabilities to relieve some of the burdens on the department’s servers was the most efficient means of staying caught up on every last clue. Streamlining all those reports into convenient packets of information, synced and ready to share as needed, was so much more effective than painstakingly questioning hundreds of people in  _ person _ .

Strangely enough, he might have felt some yearning to defer to the old fashioned method of returning phone calls, if only for a change of pace and a reason to not sit still.

This yearning went out of the window the second Lieutenant Hank Anderson ended his latest conversation with a loud curse and slammed the phone down with enough force to rattle the spare change strewn across his unkempt desk.

Connor’s sensors registered the impact within a second of it happening. He didn’t jump aside, but put an instant pause on his routines to blink back to awareness and frown at his ( _ for better or worse _ ) supervisor. That was certainly one way to get attention.

“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Side-eyeing the android from across the divider, Hank narrowed his eyes before leaning back, muttering more to himself than answering the question. “Somethin’ wrong with me, never should’ve- bad fuckin’ bet… it’s nothing, nothing that concerns you.”

_ Except when it should.  _ Connor shifted his attention to the phone. It would have been a simple enough thing to scan and look at its call history, contact trace the number. To do so would also mean breaching the lieutenant’s privacy, and he was meant to avoid that wherever possible.

The second-best compromise he thought of brought a frown to his face. “Then, could you please make an effort to keep such outbursts to a minimum? I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Oh, rich, you’re trying to fuckin’ concentrate? Excuse me, then," Hank growled back, leaning a bit closer as he did so. The displeasure with his reply was written across his face in big bold letters. “Wouldn’t wanna take away from all the  _ important  _ work you're doing.”

Sarcasm wasn’t dripping off those words as much as it was running in heavy, thick streams - like the downpours the city had suffered on and off for the past two weeks. Right about now Hank’s expression was looking as stormy as the overcast skies outside.

Tactfully avoiding the bait, Connor lifted his hand from the keyboard, skin reforming across his fingers in one fluid motion. “I can borrow another terminal if you’d rather have these desks to yourself.”

It seemed to do the trick. Hank seemed to rethink his cause for being annoyed and let it go with a slow exhale, momentarily defused. “No, it’s fine. Actually…” Trailing off, the man looked around the station for a moment, seemingly searching for something or one in particular. His face grew marginally more relaxed as if simply taking his eyes off the android helped. “Where’re your partners right now? Busy?”

“In a word, yes,” Connor retorted, mindful to keep anything more specific unvoiced for the moment. If Anderson wanted details beyond the obvious he would have said so. ‘Police business’ extended to include what androids were given to such a field- today it meant Dennis was out on patrol with Officer Miller in Forest Park, while Nick oversaw a few property dispute cases at Wayne County Third Judicial, at least a few miles uptown. “Neither of them will be back for a while, though. …Why?”

There were plenty of possible answers to that. For the moment all he could do was sit and hope it didn’t sound like an invitation for them to get candid. His sociability routines left much to be desired.

And Hank knew it. 

“Well, then, sounds like we won’t be gettin’ interrupted for quite some time.” With that, Hank got up from his seat, eyebrow raised at Connor. “Care to step into my office?”

The words made it seem like a mere invitation, but the underlying tone of Hank's voice was anything but - it was a demand, if not a straight-up order. To refuse to heed it would only result in an unfavorable outcome. If he went along for the moment, the sooner he would get back to his server chores.

“Since when do you have an office, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, glancing at the screen only long enough for the logout to process and put the terminal into standby. He understood the meaning regardless, standing up and sliding the now-empty chair back into place.

“Since they gave me a key to the evidence storage,” Hank said, hand flashing up to show the small plastic card he held, before hiding itself back in his coat pocket. “Comes with the added bonus of at least lookin’ busy.”

The latter remark he could have gone without being reminded of. But it wasn’t fair to call Hank totally lazy - he had been spending most of today’s shift on the phone, on top of actually showing up at 11:08 AM. Compared to the average 1:30 PM, it was a marked improvement.

Instead of instilling confidence speaking to his supervisor’s mending work ethic, Connor wouldn’t label his reaction as ‘reassured’. He hesitated, hand still resting on the back of the chair, eyebrows lowering. “What’s in evidence? Did I overlook something?”

Letting out a scoff, Hank deigned it a worthy enough question to look back at him. “Didn’t think it was physically possible for you to fucking miss anythin’.” He sighed as the bait went untaken. “Nah, it's just away from prying eyes and ears. Come on.”

He left the cubicle without further ado, leaving the bemused android staring after him a second too long before he remembered to obey the given command. The din of the bullpen, quieter as it had become in the last few minutes, resumed its normal level of chatter by the time they reached the door behind Fowler’s office.

The words ‘authorized personnel only’ were no longer an effective deterrent nor a valid reason to refrain from entering. Connor wouldn’t say he was excited at the prospect of talking to Anderson, alone, on such unexpected notice.

Orders were orders, though.

——-

The evidence lockup was positively sterile compared to upstairs. With no attending personnel logged in there were no containers currently rotated forward with shelves bared. The podium beyond the glass door glowed invitingly, ready and waiting, but Hank made no such motion to use the keycard. Instead, the man ambled down the stairs, ran a hand over his face as if he were staving off fatigue and grateful for the dimly-lit room.

“‘T’s more like it- get away from all the chatter for a minute.”

Connor stopped halfway down the landing and glanced at the conspicuously-empty security booth. An ST300 was meant to attend it at all times, but a belated look at the station’s records revealed said unit had been preselected for a technician’s visit. Just when he thought there was nothing to be concerned about, this setup seemed to warn otherwise.

What needed to be said in private which couldn’t be in the presence of others?

Rather than overthink it and ask, he strode onward, past Hank, and stopped to inspect the digital lock. It was impassable without a keycard, and both of them knew so. There were precious few other distractions down here otherwise, and he could play dumb long enough to get a sense for what this was about.

The alternative, he didn’t want to face just yet.

He turned back and pointed out the first ineffectuality to jump to mind: “Whatever it  _ is _ , Lieutenant, you could have sent me down here with the card to retrieve it for you.”

“Jesus, I didn’t think you seriously thought I was talkin’ about evidence, Connor. You’re not that dense, I just wanted a quiet place to talk.” Glaring up at him, Hank shrugged, changing course to approach the water cooler propped up against the opposite wall. “And it’s the first chance, in a long time, of it bein’ between just us.”

That was assuming they had anything which  _ needed _ to be discussed. Scrolling through the twenty most likely possibilities yielded nothing definitive. Even more troubling was the fact there were no immediate deflections to pick from.

The stairs were a shy ten feet from the locker’s door. Connor glanced at his only viable escape route, obvious as it was, and the frown faded. He could at least hear what the man had to say first.

“What did you want to discuss?”

“Well, for starters, we could discuss you.” Cup of water procured, Hank took a seat. He seemed relaxed, but - once again - there was an underlying tension to his posture - knees locked, free hand half clenched in a loose fist. There was obviously something on his mind of more significance than idle chitchat. “And just how the hell you’re going about everything. Heard some new information and it’s got me rethinking what impression I had.”

Maybe it was the way he worded it. Something in the delivery gave the android pause before Connor quickly realized where he had heard such judgemental words being leveled at him before. Every time he had reason to enter report mode, there it was- the expectant, authoritative voice awaiting a debrief, reading into his words just as much as whatever it was he happened to be relaying.

Finding a real world equivalent of Amanda wasn’t the most welcome comparison he had made today.

He stomached the unpleasant parallel with an abbreviated sigh through his nose. “I thought CyberLife left nothing undisclosed in our official dossier. What’s this ‘new information’?”

“‘Official’ as in CyberLife only puts down the bare fuckin' bones, and the rest is for us to find out ourselves.”

Well, as far as detective work went, how was that outside the DPD’s capabilities?

Connor thought twice of saying so, defaulting to a neutral shrug. Anderson wouldn’t appreciate the thought. Better to let him question it as he saw fit.

“What I heard was that the three of you made the news, back in August - some deviant took a little girl hostage at an apartment building here in Downtown. Ringin’ any bells?” Without waiting for an answer Hank continued, expression growing more perturbed with every passing word. He seemed decidedly uninterested in actually drinking the water. “There was an officer who got shot, Mike Wilson, from the 5th. Heard it was  _ you _ saved his life, Connor. That a fact, huh?”

It took another minute of tapping the nearest network for more pertinent information. Even if the details were simply there, part of his long term recall, it was always smart to verify. The incident occurred on August 15th. The story broke at large by the next day. A few follow-up articles dated August 27th and 30th pointed to the fact Officer Mike Wilson had indeed survived being shot in the arm.

Most telling was the audio snippet taken from an interview conducted in his hospital room.

_ When asked who he would credit as ensuring he survived, Officer Wilson confirmed if not for CyberLife’s prototype negotiator he may well have bled out beyond the point of rescue. “He wasn’t there because of me, but he saved me all the same. He gets the credit before the company does.” _

Connor banished the text from his HUD with a sharp blink, jaw tensing before he thought to check the reaction. He had heard what became of all the casualties after the fact. If Wilson wanted to think the rescue was in any way meaningful, who was to say he was wrong?

At the moment, the RK800’s more pressing concern was how Anderson had received this news. “It’s true. What does it have to do with our arrangement now?”

“Oh, I dunno. Just that this shows you’ve actually got the capacity to do things outside the bounds of your fuckin’ mission,  _ good  _ things.” The frustration was evident in Hank's voice, almost turning into a growl in the end, and the agitated gestures of his free hand to match. “And yet here we are, with you actin’ as lifeless as ever. Now I know you  _ can _ do this sort of shit, it’s suddenly ten times irritating, tryin’ to figure out why you  _ won't _ .”

“Technically it wasn’t improvisational of me. Those two matters simply happened to overlap.”

Generally speaking, acting ‘out of bounds’ wasn’t expected of most given androids. His own parameters were more loosely defined by design. The best way to anticipate ( _ and hopefully catch _ ) deviant behavior was to emulate it the best one could, while never completely breaking from one’s tethers.

If he did, what difference was left between him and those the RK800 was meant to hunt?

Hank’s bad mood had proven contagious in days past, whenever they had found cause to disagree. Today was no different. Connor glanced at the empty stairs again, considering the alternative choice to walk away. The odds of successfully doing so still weren’t very ideal.

This was another negotiation unto itself. He could talk his way out of it.

“What is it you think the mission is, Lieutenant? I’d be interested to hear your definition and  _ then _ quantify what you mean by ‘good things’ accordingly.”

“Oh, simple: I think  _ your _ mission is to be the biggest plastic asshole I’ve ever known,” Hank spat out, evidently feeding into his own anger as well. Their exchanges were never without a minimal level of friction. He took an angry swig at the water, if only to simulate the motion of knocking back a shot of whisky. “And to catch these deviants, no matter what.”

“The latter comes first, I can assure you.”

“Nah, don’t bullshit me, Connor. I want to know. You coulda walked right past Wilson, but you didn't. How come?”

He was fishing, and it was painfully obvious. To what end was the question. In the time they had worked together it had quickly become apparent which of the RK prototypes the lieutenant did and didn’t prefer working with. Dennis’ ever-diplomatic, ideally-independent streak made him a prime example of what good a variant could do. Nick, conversely, was anything but focused on the job at hand, entrusted with only the most basic clerical tasks, while being the most open, sociable, welcoming example of their line made up for whatever operational shortcomings there were.

In short, Hank Anderson much preferred working with them because they were so much more readily personable.

And now what, did he hope he was wrong? Did he need to be told it wasn’t as he thought, that Connor - the hard nosed primary with about as much compassion as a pound of lead - wasn’t entirely without empathy himself? Why was it so important?

_ (All humans die eventually, what does it matter if this one dies now?) _

The distant  _ thwapping _ of spinning helicopter rotors echoed in his ears as Connor grimaced and shut his eyes, shoulders tensing ever so slightly. He didn’t need the replay to fully understand what his reasoning had been. In truth, it boiled down to one not-so-simple reason, and he knew if he revealed it the fallout could be as good as it was probably bad.

The story was like a bone Anderson wasn’t about to let go of. He needed to be told  _ something _ .

_ (-he’ll die if you don’t-) _

_ (-what he thinks is best-) _

“I helped him… in order to make a point,” Connor said, slowly reopening his eyes, gaze on the floor, before he risked raising them again. If this ruse didn’t hold water he only had so many ulterior motives to pick from. For the moment rattling off details felt like the safe route to take. “The deviant, a PL600 named Daniel- he stood right there, at the roof’s edge, gun pointed at me, the other arm around that little girl he supposedly cared so much about, Emma. He had killed her father, John Phillips, then two other officers who had responded to the 911 call - Antony Deckart, 42, and Jared Moynihan, 27, both of the 4th Precinct.”

“Okay. Fact check mode,  _ off _ .” Anderson glowered at the reminder, snapping his fingers to enunciate the command. “I’m not askin’ you to recite the obituaries. I’m talking about the one who lived. What made you stop and help him?”

“I saw a chance to mitigate some of the damage Daniel had already done. At the time the goal was to prevent any further loss of life, where possible.”

“Wilson was just on the way? That’s what you’re sayin’?” Anderson sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, pressing under his eyes. Perhaps he was already tired of where the subject was headed, anticipating he was only going to run into a brick wall no matter what the phrasing. Nevertheless he added, “Can we expect that kinda thing to become more - frequent?”

Connor paused, running a brief calculation of all their known cases. The trend in occurrence did appear to be in the uptick from mid 2038 and onward. Delving into so many statistics, the coin virtually appeared from nowhere to spin between his fingers. “Possibly. Some patterns have emerged. Deviants normally defer to seclusion after the initial emotional shock. Most go unreported unless the original owner seeks an insurance payout. Depending on the circumstances there are instances which can prove more dangerous, even deadly- higher profile by default and therefore unavoidable.”

Speculation, and carefully weaving around the topic of the emulation of sentience RK800s employed, helped settle and addle in equal measure. “Cognitive dissonance was always a possibility with the advent of artificial intelligence, and with it came the potential for the worst possible outcomes. The company finally sought to begin remedying the problem more proactively earlier this year. That’s all.”

Normally Hank would bark at him for being too wordy. This time the aging policeman actually seemed to emerge from his daily mental funk long enough to follow. “Oh? Then, if it’s all so urgently needed, how come they didn’t roll your line out sooner? That was in August, but here we are, November.”

Aware of the time gap though he was, root directives still only let Connor reveal so much, and he wasn’t of a mind to disregard them. The quarter rolled to the outside edge of his hand, wobbling precariously before he recaptured it in one smooth twist of his wrist. “I’m not at liberty to say. CyberLife was going to catch a lot of bad press with that story, regardless. Officer Wilson needn’t simply become another name of someone killed by their faulty, outdated merchandise.”

“Bull- _ fucking _ -shit. Don't give me whatever press release version you’ve got rubber-stamped in your head. Just  _ tell  _ me why. Why is it you can act like that and save a human life, and also be just the way you -  _ you _ .” Gesturing at him, Hank sighed, almost as if he was beginning to understand the futility of his questioning. If the truth was going to come out, it already would have. “You are what you are. …Not like you're gonna say anythin’ even close to the truth anyway.”

In the spirit of truth, Connor would be remiss for not sounding off his own exasperation to match. Minus the agitated hand motions and the raised voice, he had a point to defend as much as to make, and he was doing his best to satisfy all sides here. He would redraw the proverbial line in the sand no matter how many times Anderson tried sweeping it away.

Structure had to count for  _ something _ .

“Have I ever lied to you, Lieutenant?”

Hank scoffed, shook his head, took another gulp of water and set the cup aside. “Not that I’ve proven. You’re a jackass, but at least you’re honest about it.”

“So what exactly have I done to earn such scorn in any  _ official _ capacity?” Connor asked, unable to quite contain the disdain underscoring his words. ”There’s no logical need to personalize our dynamic beyond the requirements of the job at hand. And your forcing the issue is blatantly counterproductive.”

“Official capacity, Jesus Christ.  _ This _ is why I’ve got a big fuckin’ issue with you, Connor. All you do is talk about your mission and what is best for it, and nothing fuckin' else. Would it kill you to lighten up even a bit?”

“What was never alive in the first place can’t die, Lieutenant.”

“Sure. All the more reason it’d be no real risk for you  _ to _ unwind, right?” Two cents given, Hank shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath as if to calm himself and prepare for the next rant, but it stopped short the moment his focus shifted a few degrees right.

Connor didn’t turn to look, puzzling as the change in eyeline was. Something beyond the glass wall apparently caught the man’s focus, and it was interesting enough to derail their argument before it could escalate. “Lieutenant?”

“...Hold on. What the fuck is that?”

As he failed to elaborate the necessity to turn around and look became more imperative. Such an abrupt turn in conversation couldn’t go unaddressed. “What are you looking at?”

“You didn’t see it before me? Aren’t you a state of the art prototype?” Standing up, Hank took a cautious step toward the glass, neck craning as if he were attempting to see behind the control podium without actually opening the door. For another moment he was silent, before looking back at Connor with raised eyebrows. “Holy shit. There’s something behind the podium.”

_ ‘Something’. _

The fact he couldn’t bother to be specific was reason enough to be wary. Yet at the same time, whatever it could be was worth tabling their heated discussion over.

Connor pivoted his head far enough around to risk a glance. One brief scan wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling didn’t read anything amiss. The acrylic glass might have dulled his readings, but from where they stood, the locker was empty.

He blinked, cycling through every available vision mode in the same proverbial breath. He listened, but there were no abnormal sounds to note. “I don’t detect anything.”

“Then there’s something fuckin’ broken with that android brain of yours.” Hank shrugged, before making his way to the center of the glass wall, his keycard revealing itself from his inner pocket once again. “There’s definitely something in there. Wouldn’t be the first time someone snuck away for a nip, left the sampler bottle behind. One of us has gotta go check it out, and it ain’t me.”

”Because…?”

”This is what new guys are for. And I only just stood back up.”

Also known within the department as ‘pulling rank’.

He had no better excuse to walk away now than he did to immediately disobey. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t disagree. Connor watched the card swipe across the scanner, only taking his eyes off Hank long enough for another slow, calculating glance once the door slid open and ( _ for a painfully long five seconds _ ) stayed ajar.

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go first?”

“Well, _if_ there’s anythin’ dangerous, better you find it than me. Isn’t that what you think works best, Connor? Maybe it’ll even progress your mission.” Waving the android in, Hank scoffed. “After you.”

The worst of it was the fact he was half right. Androids were, at their most basic function, made to take the brunt of whatever humans didn’t care to do themselves. Whatever their developing animosity, Anderson was still his supervisor. Disregarding an overt order would be another unnecessary deviation, the same as detouring to save Officer Wilson had been. According to him he wasn’t meant to deviate any further than strictly necessary, bend a rule without breaking it.

How was he supposed to be sure what this was otherwise?

Nevertheless it merited a suspicious glare and a final not-protest: “However you define ‘progress’, that is.”

Humoring the request took all of ten more seconds he slowly stepped inside, optics swiveling back and forth, and circled the podium, checking the room’s only possible blind spot as instructed. On a whim he placed a hand on the touchscreen and flicked through the available functions, looking for anomalies.

“Well. There don’t appear to be-”

_ Beep. _

_ OVERRIDE ENGAGED _

He discovered precisely nothing amiss as the badge-emblazoned door swished shut behind him. A muffled speaker chimed before the acrylic plane’s borders lit up with red, diagonal bars. The suddenness of it wasn’t quite as jarring as Anderson’s earlier outburst. More worrying was the fact the one-way scanner was directional, and couldn’t be accessed from inside the locker.

He stopped short of running a hack at noticing the satisfied smirk leering triumphantly at him from the security booth. ( _ Odd that for being so ‘technologically challenged’ the man knew where the lock  _ to _ the lock was accessed from. _ )

“Very amusing.”

“Thanks, I thought so, too.”

“Your point’s been made, Lieutenant. Now please disengage the override.”

Manners, at that moment, did him no favors.

“Nahhh, I don’t think I will. You’re gotta sit pretty for a while.” Hank let out a huff of laughter, obviously proud of himself for the trick he had pulled - however compliantly his victim had behaved. The end result was virtually gift-wrapped. He stepped up to the window to gently tap it with one knuckle. “And you think long and hard, all right? ‘Bout why it is we have such a problem? Maybe you’ll learn somethin’ in timeout, removed from all that busywork.”

Precisely what he was supposed to think on would have been helpful to know.

First thing first, Connor understood he was not liking the insulated feeling of being trapped in this space with all incoming electronic signals diluted. Everything was semi-muted. The locker wasn’t soundproof, and the acrylic was bullet-resistant, at best. Getting out, short of being let out by someone at the security panel, would mean breaking the rules in some shape or form.

The idea was loathsome enough, an involuntary grimace twisted his face. His hands flexed, betraying some unease. “That’s not- necessary. There’s no need to confine me while I run a few- diagnostics.”

Better known as ‘figuring out a means of escape which didn’t involve damaging DPD property’.

Just as Anderson no doubt intended.

“...really, don’t be ridiculous. How long do you intend for me to stay in here?”

“Not forever, temptin’ as it is, so be grateful,” Hank muttered, taking a step back toward the stairs as he did so. “I don’t know, though. Maybe I’ll get some work done alone for a change, and you can sit here for an hour or two, eh? Pull up some modules and examine evidence, enjoy a little quality alone time. You can handle it.”

Maybe. He had already logged weeks’ worth of hours sitting around, patiently, in various laboratories and testing bays on Belle-Isle, being poked and prodded and asked hundreds of baseline-establishing questions. But it didn’t mean he was in a hurry to revisit that arrangement while in the field.

Connor glanced between the scanner and the podium. Neither would afford him much to keep busy with. Still he tried pressing a hand to the glass behind the pad. A negative-sounding  _ bleep _ was all he got for his trouble.

_ Unable to verify user. _

_ Please reorient badge and try again. _

An “hour or two” of doing next to nothing, stuck in this sensor-inhibiting fuzz, didn’t sound so tolerable all of a sudden.

He tried prying at one of the door’s nigh-invisible seams, affecting a wince as his false nails warped and blanched white under the pressure. Scratching and pulling only for his hands to uselessly slide off, he felt the spike in his stress levels, compounded by the prior restlessness of being cooped up in the station too long. Hank looked more worryingly unsympathetic to his plight with every passing second.

“Please, open the door, Lieutenant.”

“Not how it works, I’m afraid.”

“ _ Open _ the door. Do so and I won’t have to report it to anyone, at the company, or to Captain Fowler.” 

True to his word, Anderson only pocketed the keycard and headed for the stairs.

Dumbfounded, Connor stared after him until after the man ascended past the landing, turned the corner out of sight. He heard the door at the top of the stairs squeaking ( _ tantalizingly _ ) as it opened. Light from the hallway above poured into the stairwell.

The red neon bars painted across the door fritzed as he - rather impulsively - slammed a fist against the acrylic. The reverberating  _ thud _ it made sounded and died, leaving him with the exact same circumstances as before.

A grid of intersecting red lines appeared before his eyes, overlaid with one predominant message:

STAY HERE

_ “Lieutenant!” _

So much achieving for a better understanding of each other.


End file.
